


Of Cities and Airwaves

by ryukoishida



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Radio, Awkward Flirting, Fluff, M/M, artist!Haruka, radio host!Makoto, tattooed!Makoto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3483941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about an insomniac artist Nanase Haruka, who’s a bit of a music snob, and a host of a late night radio show Tachibana Makoto, who has a lovely voice but an atrocious taste in music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Cities and Airwaves

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoy writing pining!Haru. Oh, and also Makoto with tattoos. That is all I have to say.

Haruka can't see any stars when he glances out of the window, Tokyo’s kaleidoscope of city lights in the distance too fierce a competition for the constellations in the night sky even at two in the morning.

 

As the fifteen-minute news segment gives way to some obnoxious abomination combo of hip-hop and rap track on the radio, the dark-haired man, with the lacquered wood of a paintbrush twirling between his nimble fingers, twists the knob on the ancient piece of machinery - brown grainy oak surface grazed with careless blemishes and dents, and the sound quality from the speakers are scratchy at best - that Nagisa has threatened to chuck away the next time he comes over.

 

Soft white noise fills the apartment, a state in between the solid weight of words and intangible waft of music.

 

He really should replace this old piece of junk that his father got him from a flea market when he was still in high school. Knowing that his son always had trouble falling asleep, Mr. Nanase was hoping that a variety of late night music and radio talk show would help make the time pass by faster or better yet, lull him to slumber.

 

It doesn't have a slick, modern design, but the classic curves that wrap around the circular speakers and the delicate carvings of ivy leaves and vines along the brass dials and silver scale of numbers that indicates the FM/AM frequencies somewhat compensate for its bulky size.

 

The radio sits awkwardly in the corner of his studio, surrounded by splashes of vibrant colours on canvas and contemporary furniture of soft blues and greys that don't quite go together, kind of like Haruka himself: a young man fresh out of college from a little no-name fishing town lost in a metropolitan city bursting with artificial starlight, teeming with noise, and overflowing with life.

 

At times, it's almost too much.

 

He can hear himself think better in the depth of night, the lines and colours in his mind running together in sharper contours, more focused and less clouded by the distraction of bustling sounds of a city ebbing away to near-sleep.

 

The soothing background of the radio provides a sort of ambience that Haruka finds easy to tune out when his hands and mind are occupied with creating a new piece for an upcoming exhibition, but without which he'll be losing concentration to the strange stagnancy of the night.

 

He can be awfully sentimental when it comes to things like this, and he's still unsure whether or not that's a good sign for his mentality.

 

Haruka stops at a frequency that’s playing the tail end of an all-too familiar pop-rock number, something with very repetitive and crude lyrics (he only catches the occasional mention of something, something “American Apparel underwear” in the chorus and then the song fades out into the backdrop again) made even less tolerable by the bland and formulaic melody.

 

With a sigh tinged with irritation, Haruka is about to keep twisting the knob to the next frequency when the song dies off abruptly, which is then followed by the radio host’s chipper introduction, the man's voice distorted slightly by the granular quality of the speakers but it doesn’t diminish the cheerful tenor or the warmth of it.

 

"And that was ‘She Looks So Perfect’ by 5 Seconds of Summer. Good early-morning! You’re listening to the Tokyo Sleepless Club on FM 98.5. My name's Makoto, and as always, I shall be your host for the next three hours. So for those insomniacs and night owls out there who are still wide awake with nothing better to do, consider phoning in with a request. Anything from current top 40s to the embarrassing shoujo anime theme songs you dance to in your teens, I'll be more than happy to play them for you."

 

Haruka snorts at the host’s words, for the playful irony does not escape him. "Embarrassing songs, huh?" His hand is almost itching towards his cellphone sitting innocently by the pot of dirty paint water, and he only stops when he perks up at the next selection.

 

The staccato notes of violin that precede Andrew Bird's peaceful but winding vocals flow around him, and Haruka's lips quirk up slightly.

 

"Not bad," he murmurs and sets himself in front of the canvas for the first time that night, finally able to find some semblance of concentration in the midst of poetic lyrics that can mean many things or nothing at all, and in between the music, a voice – warm green interspersed with the liveliest traces of yellow and violet, like a pasture of sunflowers and lisianthus in the summer – that stirs up the stillness of his heart.

 

Of course, that particular song is chosen by one of the few listeners who actually has some decent taste in music, because when the next song comes up, accompanied by Makoto’s brief introduction, the title and artist of which Haruka is not familiar with, he’s wincing at the upbeat bubblegum pop too damn chirpy for someone’s who’s attempting to get some work done at two-thirty in the morning.

 

There are a number of options Haruka can take, the easiest one being switching to another channel with more agreeable genres of music that won’t make him cringe and inwardly curse at the inadequacy and distasteful styles of mainstream musicians. He _can_ do that – he should if he wants to keep his sanity – but he doesn’t; instead, he merely walks over to the radio and turns the volume down.

 

It’s still loud enough for him to hear the host’s one-sided conversations with his listeners when the music pauses.

 

For the briefest moment, Haruka lets his mind wander, trying to match the silvery voice to the face of the man behind the microphone. It’s impossible, naturally, but it doesn’t stop him from imagining anyway.

 

Vibrant, lively eyes. Probably have laugh lines that crinkles at the ends of his eyes when he laughs. Dimples, maybe. Definitely a warm, lovely smile.

 

God, when was the last time he’s gone out with someone again?

 

‘Pathetic,’ he scolds himself, blinking rapidly and a little disoriented when another song rudely interrupts his train of thought. With his mind awash with gentle and smoky words and a paintbrush poised readily between his fingers, the dark-haired man begins to swipe bold strokes and brilliant shades across the canvas covered in faint skeleton of grey, sketched scrawls.

 

-

 

The next night, Haruka realizes that Makoto is more than a mere radio host with a ridiculously attractive voice who presents music to an almost absence of audience. When the occasional listener who do call in to the station, not all of them wish to place a request, as Makoto has invited every night at the beginning of his segment.

 

At 2:45 a.m., just as Haruka is finishing up the outline of a commissioned illustration and is stretching his limbs to ease his stiffened muscles, a young female – possibly drunk and most likely crying from the sniffling and slurred words that are difficult to make sense of – phones in with a heartbreaking confession.

 

“Why are men such assholes?” She demands hoarsely after overcoming a particularly vicious hiccup and a series of drunken rambling, of which Haruka only catches phrases like “goddamn cheater” and “what does she have that I don’t?”

 

Makoto doesn’t scold her for cussing on air, and answers with such a consoling yet straightforward tone that Haruka wonders if he also works as a social worker on the side. “We all make mistakes, but some of us are less remorseful about them than others, which is very unfortunate.”

 

The woman sniffs indignantly. “You got that right.”

 

“If I may, what’s your name?”

 

“Gou.”

 

“Gou-san, is there anything I can do?”  

 

She pauses for a moment, contemplating. “Yes. Play me a sad song – the saddest song you can find.”

 

“Will do,” Makoto consents, then with a softer tone, “And Gou-san, remember: sleep it off tonight, and tomorrow will be a new day for a new start again.”

 

“Yeah,” she sounds unconvinced, but thanks him nevertheless before she hangs up.

 

“For Gou-san, and for those who are experiencing heartbreaks as well, it may be hard to believe right now, but time will pass and so will the pain.” Though Makoto’s encouraging speech is as typical as it can get, the kindness in his tenor is sincere and heartfelt – something that cannot be faked – and Haruka, even if he might not agree with the radio host’s choice of music ninety-eight percent of the time, is touched by the concern this man seems to show even towards strangers over the phone. “So here’s Avril Lavigne’s ‘When You’re Gone’.”

 

He groans, burying his face into his hands and slumps over his work desk. Yes, fine, he might have the personality of a saint, but his taste in music still sucks.

 

It isn't until three days later that Haruka decides that enough is enough. There's only so much monotonous pop-rock anthems and auto-tuned dance numbers he can take before the sheer amount of ludicrous garbage the host with the "hot voice" - as Haruka now privately deems the man named Makoto - calls music drives him up the walls. This is seriously causing Haruka to sob internally with despair because why does he have to deal with the sweet torturous disparity of the regrettable music choices the man picks and the gorgeous voice that he makes very good use of over the airwaves?

 

Honestly, is Mr. "Hot Voice" tone deaf or does he just have a very unfortunate preference in regards to music? Haruka has been very tempted to find out, but he always manages to stop himself in time; the closest he has been was last night when he had the station's phone number displayed on the too-bright screen of his phone and all he’d needed to do was press the little green button.

 

He clicked on the red button instead, thinking that the host, who has to work graveyard shifts talking to an audience that's mostly asleep, is a hard enough life to lead, he probably doesn't need some asshole music snob (to be fair, he isn’t _really_ a “snob” – much; it’s just that, sadly, most people are mindless sheep with a pack mentality that follow whatever’s trendy, and that includes the junk being aired on atrocious channels like MTV) to point out why his late night playlist sucks in fifteen different ways, even though he might think that nobody would be paying attention to the radio at three in the morning.

 

Well, Makoto would be mistaken if he thinks he can get away with his appalling taste in music just because he’s hosting a late-night-early-morning show, and Haruka is going to make a point of expressing his concerns to him tonight.

 

Placing his pencil down and abandoning his half-formed draft for the time being, Haruka punches in the radio station’s number almost vehemently, the effect of which is dampened by the fact that it’s a touchscreen phone but the sentiment is still the same. He’s not about to admit that his heart is thudding unevenly inside his chest, because it’s _not_ – it’s just, he’d rather communicate with strangers over text or e-mail than exchange words over the telephone, and fine, he may or may not be making excuses at this point since he’s about to talk to Mr. “Hot Voice” for real and he’s nervous – and after about three peals of ringing, Haruka hears a click as someone picks up.   

 

“Hello! This is Makoto of Tokyo Sleepless Club speaking.” The friendly and cheerful voice on the other end of the phone makes Haruka blink for a full five seconds with his mind going blank and his throat growing dry that Makoto has to repeat, “Hello? You there?”

 

“A-ah, hello,” Haruka clears his throat and greets with a croak, his cheeks turning uncomfortably warm. He picks up the pencil from his desk and begins to twirl the utensil ‘round and ‘round restlessly.

 

“Oh, there you are,” Makoto chuckles. “How may I help you?”

 

The man’s simple, low little laugh has somehow made Haruka lose his brain-mouth filter, or lose his mind, more like.

 

“By not playing insipid and commercial garbage on the radio,” comes straight out of Haruka before he can stop himself in time. He slaps a hand over his mouth, possibly audible even over the phone, eyes widening in mortification. A second of silence ticks by, and then another. “Maybe?” slips out hesitantly from between his fingers in a stage whisper, as if that one little word can lessen the blow of his very rude statement and alter the radio host’s first impression of him.

 

He really, _really_ hopes their conversation isn’t being broadcasted at the moment.

 

A brief pause that to Haruka feels like an eternity later, Makoto speaks again, his careful tone concealed with a light playfulness, “Any suggestions, then? That’s what I’m here for, after all.”

 

Haruka should apologize for his outburst before the man can find another reason to hate him. He really should, if he wants to keep phoning in with requests if only to hear the man speaks every night because damn, how is it possible for someone’s voice to sound so good on his piece of trash radio and downright sinful through his phone, dripping into his ears like a caress, his laugh all smoky and warm yet capable of making Haruka’s heart race just a tad bit faster than normal?

 

It’s not fair. It’s simply not fair.

 

“Patrick Wolf,” Haruka says, his voice strangely strangled. He clears his throat again.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“You should play some Patrick Wolf,” Haruka reiterates quickly in a mumble, “‘London’, if you have it.”

 

It feels like that kind of night, Haruka wants to tell him, but doesn’t. The melancholic wail of the viola and the imagery of the lyrics depicting a city cloaked in dark river light go perfectly with the sky outside his twenty-first floor apartment, grey and hazy with an intermittent drizzle that has been going on and off the whole day until it gives way to the evening, the artificial constellations all but blurred into mist and blobs of confused fireflies.

 

“You sure that song’s not a piece of insipid and commercial garbage?” There may have been a hint of teasing in there as he throws Haruka’s words back in his face, or he can be totally wrong.

 

Haruka can only hope for the best.

 

“At least he knows what he’s singing about,” Haruka retorts, a little disgruntled. His previous intention to apologize vanishes in record time.

 

“All right, all right, easy there, stranger. I wasn’t trying to pick a fight,” Makoto laughs, loud and open this time as if Haruka has just told him an especially funny joke. “I’m not familiar with the artist, but I’ll try my best to see if I have the song in our database.”

 

“Mm,” Haruka gives a noise of acknowledgement, nodding even though he’s the only one in the apartment. He stops, running an agitated hand through his hair until strands are sticking up from every direction.

 

“Unless you want our conversation to be heard throughout the city – though, granted, not a lot of people would be awake at this time of night, I suppose – anything else before you hang up? The current song will be ending in one minute twenty seconds and I’ll have to start talking.” Makoto may have been rambling a bit before he realizes it himself, because there’s a sudden stagnant silence on the other end, and Haruka quietly smiles to himself.

 

“That’s it. I just wanted to relieve your listeners from constantly being subjected to the stuff you play for them.” That wasn’t supposed to come out, either. _Yes, okay, thank you Nanase-the-snobby-music-critic, you can shut up now, I think he got your point the first time you insulted him_ , Haruka grimaces.

 

He’s losing his mind – definitely.

 

“Well, I’m sure they’d appreciate your effort,” Makoto tells him pleasantly, and the dark-haired man can practically hear the grin in the radio host’s mockingly jovial tone.

 

“G-good night, err, morning, um, whatever. Bye,” Haruka inwardly groans at the awkwardness he’s obviously displaying, but he can’t find it in himself to be the first to hang up until he hears Makoto returning his goodbye.

 

“Hope you’ll call in again, stranger. Good night,” Makoto says, voice turning to something less teasing and more gentle, like the tepid sea breeze during the summers in Iwatobi that used to soothe the vexing storm of his heart.

 

When he’s finally able to place his phone down with a steady hand, Haruka releases a long, shaky breath as his eyes slip closed, a slight frown etched on his thin brows, and he listens to Makoto recapping the previous song he’s played.

 

It isn’t until two more anime theme songs later that Makoto’s voice brings Haruka out of his trance and makes him sit up straighter in his chair.

 

“Our next song, requested by a stranger who may or may not be disgusted by me and my taste in music, is Patrick Wolf’s ‘The City’. I’m sorry I couldn’t find the track you originally asked for, but I hope this serves as an adequate consolation prize anyway.”

 

The catchy piano and saxophone overture of the song begins to play merrily in Haruka’s studio, and soon Patrick Wolf’s lush and orotund vocals are bursting the chorus, “Won’t let this city destroy our love!”

 

An entirely different picture is being painted by this song, as the hues and lines in his mind start to shift and grow a life of their own, though both tracks tell stories about the people in cities. Instead of the cold greys and dreary darkness of London’s rainy nights, Wolf’s latest single denotes a love between two people that is so pure, bright, and powerful that even the needless burdens and contamination of the city are unable to hold it down.

 

It isn’t the song that Haruka has in mind when he has first decided to make this phone call, but then again, he isn’t expecting Makoto to invite him to call back, either.  

 

Picking up his pencil once more with a renewed rupture of energy, Haruka sets to work, determined to finish this illustration within two hours so that he can at least try to get some shut-eye before the sky dawns.

 

It’s another two days later when Haruka has swallowed the embarrassment of his first exchange with Makoto and gathered up enough courage to call the radio station again.

 

“I was beginning to think that my horrendous taste in music has sent you running for good,” Makoto teases him after greeting him cheerily. Even with just a meek “hello” on Haruka’s end, Makoto seems to be able to immediately recognize his voice from a few days ago. 

 

Haruka’s face warms at the thought that he remembers and he’s actually waiting for him to phone back.  

 

“Do I have the pleasure of getting to know your name this time?”

 

“It’s Haruka,” he murmurs, biting back a smile while playing with the paintbrush absentmindedly in his hand, and then he quickly corrects himself as a light blush tints his cheeks, “Haru.”

 

“Well then, Haru, any suggestions for our listeners this morning?”

 

Haruka, meanwhile, is still reveling at the particular way Makoto’s voice gently wraps around the syllables of his name, and despite it being only the second time they talk, Haruka knows he wants more of this, of _him_ – this young man with a voice that has captivated him right from the beginning, a heart so kind and open and honest that it makes Haruka shed off his reserved and admittedly socially-awkward skin and initiates contact, a kindred soul that somehow reminds Haruka of home, and someone who, in time, Haruka hopes to befriend.

 

Hearing him over the radio among tens of other frequencies has been a chance encounter, but ever since the day Haruka punched in the radio station’s number and unintentionally insulted the stranger with the illegally appealing voice and unimpressive music taste, he senses that there’s _something_ between them and Haruka wants to pursue it, hold it in his hands as carefully as he would handle a valuable piece of art, cherish it in his heart and drown in it – whatever _it_ is.

 

“Haru? You still there?” A hint of concern seeps into Makoto’s honeyed tenor when the silence has gone on for too long.

 

The song playing softly on the radio in the background, some terrible hip-hop atrocity with the vocalist repeatedly singing about getting “stuck on a feeling”, is winding to an end.

 

A slow smile begins to grow on the artist’s lips. “Yeah, I might have a few.”

 

-

 

Song requests and playful bantering in the early mornings – accompanied by a burst of creativity on Haruka’s end during those particular nights that even his manager, a young woman taken to wearing pastel colours by the name of Amakata Miho, is impressed by the artist’s recent speedy turnaround time – turn into slightly longer conversations off-air during commercial breaks, which then turns into Makoto casually asking if he can call him outside of his work hours, to which Haruka replies with an all-too-quick affirmative.

 

Inside a crowded Starbucks bursting with businessmen and women armed with their cellphones and briefcases, college students yawning loudly while ordering their caffeine for the day before the start of their classes, and a few elderly ladies sitting in a quiet corner reading newspaper and sipping dainty cups of espresso, Haruka is nursing his mug of London Fog by one of the window seats that allows him to watch the people walking by hurriedly on the street on this cloudy Tuesday morning.

 

Of course Makoto would suggest their first meeting – Haruka refuses to get his hopes up and deem this an official date because he doesn’t think that’s what this is, and he doesn’t want to be disappointed – to take place at the most mainstream of all mainstream chains of coffee shops in the city. Haruka hides his grin behind his steaming cup as he inhales the sweet, mild fragrance of vanilla and Earl Grey.

 

“Haru?” The voice is laced with a touch of tentativeness, but Haruka can recognize it anywhere.

 

Except… except… Oh god.

 

Haruka quickly places his drink down in case his shaking hand does something embarrassing, like spilling his burning beverage all over himself in excitement, for example.

 

How is it possible for this man’s voice to get any hotter? Without the barrier of the speakers of his radio or his phone, the warm, smoky tone with which Tachibana Makoto calls his name is an absolute criminal offense that’s making his legs weak and his heart skip all over the place.

 

“Um, yes,” Haruka stutters, ducking his head a little as Makoto slips into the seat across from him and puts his own drink down on the table. “Hi?” He grimaces inwardly at the uncertain intonation of his greeting, his fingers gripping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles are turning white.

 

“Honestly, I was getting the impression that you’ll bash my music taste face-to-face the first chance you get,” Makoto chuckles good-naturedly as he takes a sip of whatever’s in his mug.

 

Haruka buries his burning face into his palms when the other men mentions their first conversation, which has proven to be one of the most humiliating moments of his life. His voice is muffled as he mutters, “I already apologize for that, didn’t I?”

 

The radio host laughs even harder at that, a full-body sound that originates from the depth of his chest, the sound rich and deep and infectious. Haruka doesn’t see it, since he still has his hands over his eyes and the majority of his face, but Makoto’s leaning across the table, a soft but amused grin pulling at the corner of his lips as he lightly presses his hand against the back of Haruka’s.

 

When he finally manages to fully pries Haruka’s fingers away from his face, Makoto tips his chin up with a gentle finger, leaving the dark-haired man dazed and startled from the man’s boldness but not entirely put off by the unexpected gesture, the curtain of his bangs still veiling his eyes.

 

He blinks, vision becoming slightly unfocused from the way he’s concentrating on the pattern of the wooden table, and then he swiftly shifts his gaze towards their hands, still touching.

 

As if he can sense Haruka’s mild confusion, Makoto retrieves his hand back to his side of the table, and the artist can’t help but let his eyes wander and follow – the fingers tapping a private little rhythm on the side of his ceramic mug, wrist donning an outrageous orange watch, up his arm covered in a graceful swirl of inked geometric lines and shapes that Haruka’s fingers are itching to trace, shoulder squared and broad, a hint of tattoos that snake tantalizingly up the side of his neck hidden by his shirt just stopping at his collarbone, and then he’s finally seeing the face he’s been fantasizing about ever since this man’s voice has glided into his ears and taken over his mind, rattling the calm that defines who he is.

 

Not to be overly dramatic or anything.

 

But life really is not fair, Haruka moans silently in his head as his eyes fix on to Makoto’s face at last; it’s nothing compared to any fantasies he might have had for the past few weeks.

 

It’s _better_. And Haruka doesn’t even know where to start.

 

“Hey there,” Makoto greets him in a kind, soft timbre when their gazes finally meet, though his lips is curved up into a playful smirk as if he knows exactly what Haruka has been thinking, which of course, causes the dark-haired man to blush a deeper shade of red. Behind those black, rectangular-rimmed glasses are eyes the colour of pale jade verging on hazel depending on the lighting, and olive brown hair that falls over his mirthful eyes.

 

He’s watching Haruka closely – gauging for his reaction, perhaps, or patiently waiting for him to continue this currently very one-sided conversation – and under normal circumstances, the artist would have found it too uncomfortable under the scrutiny of someone he’s never met and have long left the coffee shop, disregarding social courtesy and all that. Yet, leaving is the last thing Haruka wants to do right now.

 

“Hello,” he returns timidly, thanking the stars that his voice is at least steady and his hands are not dying to crush the table anymore.

 

“You’re a lot quieter than I imagined you to be from our conversations on the phone,” Makoto admits with a thoughtful smile, placing his chin in the cradle of his palm as his elbow props on the tabletop.

 

Haruka isn’t about to declare that Makoto is a lot more gorgeous than he has imagined because that would be adding one more item to the list of embarrassing things he’s already done in front of this man and that’s just pushing his luck.

 

“I just wasn’t expecting you to look so… so…” he swallows, belatedly realizing that he’s just dug himself a self-destructive hole and he may as well just crawl in there and disappear.

 

“So…?” Makoto prompts, an eyebrow quirking up in question.

 

“Different,” Haruka manages without choking himself, and then adds, “different from your radio personality, I mean.”

 

“It’s the tattoos, isn’t it?” Makoto chuckles, sunny and spirited and sending Haruka’s poor heart into overdrive.

 

“That’s… part of it,” Haruka’s eyes darted to the aforementioned tattoos for a brief moment, and then unwillingly drag them away before the length of his appreciative staring can be considered rude.

 

“Anyway, Haru,” Makoto straightens up, his demeanor suddenly transforming into something more business-like as his smile disappears behind a neutral expression.

 

“Um. Yes, Makoto?” Haruka’s fingers are restlessly tapping against his thighs under the table.

 

“You were going to brainwash me with a sample of music you deem appropriate for radio-play, remember? I was quite looking forward to it.” The grin comes back, and the lines at the edge of his eyes crinkle, green irises glimmering livelier than before.

 

“Re-educate, not brainwash,” Haruka corrects him but he’s smiling a little, too, relieved that the initial unease seems to have dissipated thanks to Makoto’s reminder of what Haruka has promised during their last exchange over the phone.  He rummages through his messenger bag and pulls out an old model of a Sony mp3 player, sliding it across the table and eyeing him expectantly when the brunette picks it up.

 

“This is the good stuff?” Makoto asks casually, unwinding the cord of the earphones.

 

“Better than the ones you play in your show,” Haruka promises with a smirk, and blinks with slight puzzlement when Makoto passes him one of the ear-buds.

 

“Music sounds better when you’re sharing it with someone, right?” Makoto sends him a bright, warm smile that rivals the pastel sunlight of spring, not quite passionate as summer but enough to rouse people awake from winter’s cold dreariness.

 

“I suppose,” Haruka allows, reaching out to take the ear-bud, only to realize that the cord is too short to share across the width of the table.

 

“Here.” Makoto seems unfazed as he slides his chair over so that he’s sitting beside the dark-haired man, and folds himself gracefully into his seat despite his gangly limbs, once again offering him the ear-bud.

 

“Thanks,” Haruka murmurs, the tips of his ears growing warm at the abrupt decrease in their proximity. From this distance, Haruka is able to steal a sidelong glance, and notices how the man’s dark lashes nicely frame the shape of his eyes and how he’s chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully as he opts for the “Shuffle” option.

 

As fate would have it, Andrew Bird’s “Section 8 City” begins to play, the plucking chords of violin, rhythmic hand clapping, and the whistling that weaves into a pleasant symbiotic euphony introduces the song and sends a stimulating yet soothing breeze through the chaos of their feverish thoughts.

 

The song is more about the ambience than the lyrics, as the uplifting beat of the song gradually winds down to a progressively mournful meandering and coiling of the violin that always seems to pull at his heartstrings every time Haruka listens to this track on his own.

 

Despite the incessant noises inside the coffee shop – whirring of the coffee machines, laughter and conversations between patrons, clinking of glasses and mugs – Haruka only hears the melancholy concealed within the harmony in his head and is barely attentive to his surroundings, his concentration having shifted from being hyperaware of Makoto’s closeness and how pretty the complimentary shades of forest green and pale orange lines of his tattoos look to staring out the rain-smeared window that blurs the street view into a strange fusion of evanescence of Impressionism and ambiguity of Modernism.

 

The trance is broken when the song drifts into silence, and he feels Makoto’s touch on the inside of his wrist to get his attention – a gesture that’s at once intimate and unguarded.

 

Haruka’s mouth feels useless and his throat too thick so that words become heavy and inadequate. Andrew Bird’s songs tend to put him in that mindset as if he has just woken up from a very long, pleasant dream and hasn’t return to reality yet.

 

“Hmm?” He manages to utter, uncertain whether or not that’s an appropriate response when the other person is looking at them with such tenderness – like they’ve known each other for so long that such expressions are of nothing unusual – that it’s almost tearing Haruka’s heart apart all over again.

 

“Did you bring an umbrella?” Makoto nods towards the heavy rain that’s pitter-pattering against the awning outside, the clouds so menacingly dark and thick that it doesn’t look like it has any intention to seize any time soon.

 

Haruka answers with another question, his lips quirking up. “Are you in a hurry to go somewhere?”

 

The radio host’s arm brushes against Haruka’s for the briefest moment when he reaches for his mug. The movement is too deliberate for it just to be a coincidence, if Makoto’s crooked little smile has anything to do with it.

 

“No, not at all.” The brunette laughs, and the sound rings true as wind chimes humming harmonic cadences to the sweet murmuring of spring breeze; the open happiness and honest timbre residing in Makoto’s voice is something that Haruka can definitely get used to.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this might be one of my favourite pieces to work on, actually. I’ve always had a thing for Suzuki Tatsuhisa’s voice, so… there ya go! If you’ve enjoyed this fic, please consider casting a vote at the Official MakoHaru Festival (http://theofficialmakoharufestival.tumblr.com/post/112779463025). I’d really appreciate it!


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